


A Space between Revelations

by Kartaylir



Category: Divinity: Original Sin (Video Games)
Genre: Extra Treat, F/M, Kneeling, POV Second Person, Sebille is the Godwoken
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:20:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26484049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kartaylir/pseuds/Kartaylir
Summary: While the defeat of the Shadow Prince provides no shortage of new concerns to contemplate, Sebille refuses to allow either herself or the Red Prince dwell on them overmuch.
Relationships: Female Godwoken/The Red Prince, The Red Prince/Sebille
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11
Collections: Press Start VI, Small FEAR 2020





	A Space between Revelations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [revanchist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/revanchist/gifts).



You can’t help but glance at the names on your arm. The scars and lines of them are hidden beneath the Shadow Prince’s blood and yet you can still feel the itch of them. You’re no longer sure if you want to add his name among them. If you would mar their memory with his. If you want any memory of him at all.

He’s dead either way, no matter what he’d said before that. No matter how true it might have been. 

“How are you?” the Red Prince asks, and you look up toward him. Already your other companions have stepped away to strip the dead. To give you space for scars and songs and talk of destinies.

You shake your head, the thought of any words too bitter through the blood splashed on your face, your lips. “Do you think we can find her now?”

He bares his teeth in a gesture you’ve come to read as equal to an arrogant curl of his lips. As if anything he does is lacking in arrogance. He is that given form; given a destiny he finds joy in.

Except for all his tales of lonely days and too-quiet nights. Of exile. 

“I’ll want your aid for it,” he says. And there’s the thing neither of you can say as much as you circle around it. He gave you a song and a sword, you gave him the time to ask his questions of the Shadow Prince before your needle found its mark.

“You want to know if we’ll go after the Mother Tree first,” you say, and rest a hand on his armored shoulder. It’s a mistake. It only serves to remind you of the weight, the presence of him. The sheer solidity of flesh and muscle.

He brushes a speck of dirt from his cloak.

You press your hand down harder upon his shoulder. It surprises you still that he does not resist. That he falls to one knee before you with his teeth bared, as his tail draws lines in the dirt behind him.

“We’ll find your Princess,” you say, and nearly cut your tongue on the words. “I won’t deny you your fate. Your vengeance.”

“How uncouth of you to think this is merely about destiny and revenge..” He reaches out to take your free hand and presses it against the side of his mouth. You can feel the roughness of scales, the smoother lines of spines and teeth.. “I gave you the song for your sake.”

It’d be easy to snap at him over that, to build back the cracking wall of bitterness. You know how to build a life out of disappointments. Out of scars layered over the things you’ve forgotten.

“We’ll find the mirror,” you say instead. You’ve not quite decided on the rest.

“We will,” he says, with less arrogance than usual. “But I would not deem it our only goal. Not when there was a ring of truth to his words.”

You tighten your hand around his jaw to silence him. “If so, then we’ll figure it out together.”

Then you let your grasp there loosen as you bend down to kiss his scales, pull your other hand slowly down his chest. The armor at least is familiar to your touch. Perhaps the rest of him will be as well, though for now you still notice how his scales lack the taste of salt or the gentle give of skin beneath your lips.

You want to think on that more than you allow yourself. Of something more than unity against common foes. Against those who trapped you, the tree that would bind you, and every dark power that might seep out to tempt you both.

He lifts your hand from his chest and kisses it in turn. The press of teeth and scales. “Then command me, Godwoken.”

Your hands drop to your side. “Kneel.”

His other knee slams into the ground, heavy with the weight of his armor. There’s so many buckles and ties to that, so many little interlocking plates that you want to learn every detail of. It is fortunate that your own clothing is of a style far much easier to remove, and soon everything from your waist down is bare. 

You pull his head between your legs. He’s warm and dry, with the spikes around his jaw adding just a little edge of pain against your thighs. More than enough. All of it makes the wet heat of his tongue even better.

You don’t drop your needle. Instead you tuck it away, out of easy reach. You know your own reflexes too well to leave exposed. He watches with one eye as you hide it away.

Then you run your hand over the back of his head, brushing back the spines. He’s braced himself with one hand, for he does not kneel as easily as most. But his attention to you continues unabated. That combination of heat and pressure, of him at your command for at least these moments. He lifts a hand to you in turn, runs it across the thin line of your leg, the skin over bone and muscle. Ever it seems as if he wants to touch every inch, as if he were some sculptor seeking to embody you in stone.

That would be the metaphor he’d use, wouldn’t it? Or something alike. You move the hand atop him back to the side of his mouth, brush it over the smaller scales.

His tongue circles around your clit and you rub the thumb of your other hand over the names on your arm. _One more,_ you think, deciding. Just one more and you’ll leave destiny to those who favor it.

He draws in a breath, loud enough as if he might have suffocated between your thighs. You trace those names out across his jaw and hold him in his place until he’s satisfied you unto gasping. Until your whole body shivers with the touch of his tongue.

Then you step back from him, lips formed into a dangerous smile. He lifts his head and stands. There’s grace even in that despite all you expect for the gesture to be awkward.

You push your hand against his chest and he lets you tilt him back until he’s braced against a tower of stone. “Let’s get some dirt on that shining armor,” you say, though the battle has already left it singed, touched by blood and mud alike. It’s only his arrogance that has gone undiminished, as if you’ve delved past it while leaving the upper layers untouched.

And you do so love to see him beneath you.

You’ve long ago learned the tricks of lizards, and so it’s only a matter of a few touches of your hand, a few undone buckles, and he’s waiting there, erect and impatient before you. 

“We don’t have all day, Godwoken,” he says and you wish there was no truth in those words. That you could linger over him until he begged you to continue. Until he—

Ah, but you’ll just have to take what you can in the meantime. For these moments at least he is only yours.

So you lower yourself upon him, savor the touch of fingers against teeth and scales. That little murmur he can’t hide when he slips inside you, the curve within that’s shaped just differently enough for you to remember it.

You gasp in turn as you shift your hips, rock your body atop him with little care for the dirt or blood that surrounds you. Your enemy stares at the sky with dead eyes, and you almost laugh at the thought, at how his enemies are now united against him in all ways.

For the briefest second you even forget the placement of your needle. So caught in the way the Red Prince comes apart beneath you, the whispers of secrets or promises you don’t quite understand. 

“I want his house,” you say, turning your hips more so that with every movement you try to push him further inside you. You’ll grant him no dragons, but no longer do you fear what you have to offer.

He cannot find his breath to speak, his body reverberating with the tremors of his release. You lean against him and trace a nail against his jaw, sharp enough to cut.

“What house?” he says, finally.

“The House of Shadows. How else can I keep you by my side?”

He almost laughs, you can tell that from the way he starts to bare his teeth. But you’re serious, and he’s learned enough to judge that. “Who else would you be, my darling, save the leader of a secret house?”

“You’ll be Emperor. Surely you can think of something.” 

He stretches, moves to stand in full. You still lean against him, clinging to the moment just a little longer.

“I will,” he says, and with the weight to his words makes an oath of it. “At a time where you’re not being so perfectly distracting.”

You peel yourself away from him and smile sharply as you reach for your discarded clothes. You're certain you can refrain from distracting him for at least that long. As for the rest, you'll deal with it as it comes. One new step, one new island after the other.


End file.
